


Retrograde

by treasuredleisure



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Calm Down Erik, Car Sex, Charles You Slut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:25:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treasuredleisure/pseuds/treasuredleisure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a calm night, a journey home, and the hitchhiker on the road ends up being the one who takes Charles for a wild ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retrograde

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TranquillityofPassion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TranquillityofPassion/gifts).



Charles was feeling particularly outrageous that night.

Not that he was still bouncing off the aftermath of his rebel period, but there was a sharp lack of adventure in his life, a fact he often feared contributed to the sheer disappointment of the aforementioned rebel period. Which, he recalled, lasted a total of three lacklustre weeks.

As he conquered the miles between NYC and Westchester, he felt an odd sense of irony at how much of his life was passing by just as easily as the road was; and as swiftly as the scenery swept by his window, his years were.

And so they began, what Raven named _old-aged pensioner thoughts_ , which apparently he indulged in quite frequently, and sometimes even loudly enough to bring out his teenage sister’s inner existential crisis. They didn’t want to go down that route again.

Neither did Charles, twenty-one and a hundred years old, possessor of unparalleled telepathic ability and an honourable degree in Biophysics, who hardly felt like he needed to be liberated.

His gift allowed him control over his life and the power to manage the people in it; the temptation to get carried away had started becoming less and less difficult to quell. He had already laid out his own moral code, but there were still occasions where he didn’t even realise he was only obtaining a person’s attention because he was inadvertently striving for it.

It wasn’t something that could be turned off. When they were younger, he often found Raven attempting to scrape off her scales, hoping to uncover normal human flesh underneath, but nature had run its course and made them two very different, unique individuals.

He rolled down his window to invite the cool Fall air and casually leaned an elbow out, checking the rear-view mirror for any cars behind him as he eased his own to a slower speed. Much too soon, he’d be pulling up into the expansive driveway of the old mansion, dread would begin to knot in his gut, and he’d be reminded of just how much he despised the holidays. He was _not_ in a hurry.

Wind burst in and suddenly there was hair sweeping over his eyes obscuring his sight; so at first, he didn’t even see the arm stretched out in a halting gesture a few yards ahead of him.

Charles didn’t mean to dismissively drive on. He pressed the brake too late—by this time the figure had been left behind on the sidewalk.

Checking his mirror again, Charles glanced at the man he had passed by. His gaze was still directed on Charles’s Maserati as he dropped his arm down to his side.

Charles tentatively reversed.

The lane was empty. He had swept his mind over a mile’s radius to make certain he wouldn’t be barraged into by an imminent vehicle, and was left satisfied to know the nearest driver was slow and steady, left with enough leverage to overtake if they had to.

By now, the man was walking up the sidewalk to meet Charles at the window of his car. The man was tall, his proportions somewhat unrealistically unfair. He had long limbs and an incredibly long, trim upper body. The closer he approached, the more Charles came to notice the permanence of the frown on the man’s angular face.

He most certainly _was_ in a hurry.

The thought was prominent, unable to be contained and leaking into Charles’s neighbouring mind. His long legs took long strides and brought him to the window of his sleek black car within a quick breeze of seconds.

Something had this man pulled taut and hostile. He had a rucksack over his shoulder, and when he neared, Charles noticed the zipper of his jacket didn’t even have teeth, like the metal had _melded_ —

“Sorry to stop you on your way,” the man began, doubling forward so his face was in Charles’s line of vision. “I need a ride. It’s pretty urgent.”

“Where to?” he managed to ask, breathless with curiosity. Could a more mysterious mind even exist? It was like being suspended in thick grey fog, all while knowing the obstruction in the air would give way to something wondrous.

Something he could effortlessly unveil, should he feel the need to. A gentle nudge to prompt conversations, or revive them whenever necessary.  Evading sensitive topics and voicing a catalogue of preferences. His methods worked without fail and went a long way, even if the path mostly ended underneath bedsheets, in a dark room.

He could clear the haze of mystery and unfold the man who leant over his car, even make him think he was a baby rabbit—not that he foresaw himself resorting to such measures, but he made a point of reminding himself of that every time he encountered an intimidating stranger: baby rabbit, without batting a lash.

Charles glanced up at him—focusing on the man’s face, rather than what it was hiding. The mask covering the mind.

And he masqueraded as an equally unsolvable mystery. Charles couldn’t tell if his eyes were grey, green, or blue. Why did they narrow at everything in scrutiny? Scar tissue streaked his dark pink knuckles in a tiny, netted pattern—but then how were his nails so clean and trimmed, his long delicate fingers so unaffected by whatever had marred his knuckles?

For now, all he was getting was,

“I need to get to Hudson River Park.”

Charles wasn’t in a hurry.

“Sure.” He lifted and dropped a shoulder.

The man most certainly was.

“Thanks.” It took far too much facial muscle for him to smile. A true shame, because he was rather stunning. He tapped the hood of the car as he straightened and loped his way around to the passenger seat, cautious. Always cautious.

Especially as he tucked himself into the seat, rucksack carefully placed in the footwell, and hands neatly folded in his lap. So many striking veins, a maze of tangled colours, like his hands were always in excessive use.

The car suddenly smelled of clean leather. Then, more pungently, the smoke after a fire went out. The man’s scent had bled into the car, and Charles didn’t mind. He inhaled the odd odour as though he was completely unflapped by his company, like his hands weren’t clammy with sweat against the steering wheel as he drove.

For someone as gregarious and talkative as him, he felt dragged down by the silence. He cupped the gear stick and jerked it forward, the back of his hand brushing his passenger’s knee.

“... Sorry,” Charles swallowed, licking his lips. The man shifted in his seat but didn’t say a word. His head was slowly drifting to face him, eyes on his profile, undoubtedly entertained by the rise of his animated blush.

He heard a low, heavy chuckle—heavy enough to break the ice, Charles hoped, for it was becoming difficult to expel the breath he held in his lungs.

He’d truly underestimated how difficult it could be to start an exchange with an attractive stranger when he wasn’t leafing through the topics of their mind.

It was a veering thought. To his right was the stormiest mind he had ever met, and before it had the chance to fog up the windscreen, Charles had to submerge himself into his curiosity.

“So,” he started, his voice sounding too loud and sudden. He paused, clearing his throat. “Interesting time to be heading to the River Park.”

It was approaching midnight. Overhead, purple faded into a darkness adorned with the dust of glow.  

But the man only hummed. Charles wanted to shake the man by his broad, burly shoulders. He clearly had an important motive and Charles had vainly hoped that his crass inquiry would prompt it out of him.

He persevered. “Business? Or a hitchhiking expedition?”

That, at least, got the man to snort. Amusement was an incongruity in his mind; like oil in water, it just didn’t blend.  

“A bit of both,” he admitted, long after the question was raised. Charles would’ve forgotten the matter if he wasn’t dwelling on the man so insistently.

Then he was turning his head and gazing at Charles. Under the close observation, he felt himself heating to his hairline, mouth twitching to speak.

“When I was studying in Oxford, I,” he paused, hand carefully drifting to clutch the gear stick. The man’s knee shifted aside. His eyes averted to settle elsewhere, and suddenly, Charles felt the blanket of mist over his mind was starting to dissipate.

“You went on a hitchhiking expedition,” the man said, nodding—it wasn’t even a question. His eyes darted to Charles and then immediately snapped away, like Charles was the blinding fire of the sun, and he couldn’t look.

“To Turkey,” Charles continued, heedless. “Not a penny spent on travel. It took us eight days, and cost us a lot of our dignity.”

And then he looked again, daring a glance, like he was giving in to the whim of indulgence, but couldn’t look for too long.

He removed his gaze and stared outside.

They were at a junction, merging into a main road, nothing exciting; but as a silver Cadillac swerved its way ahead of them and drove on, the man bolted forward in the seat and _yelled._

“Follow that car!”

His mind lit up like a thousand bright bulbs, and Charles felt nauseated, his head spinning. So much attention and focus was poured into one objective: _follow the car_. The suddenness was startling; the man’s guarded facade dropped in a beat and out sprang a fierce hunter with a manic drive to—

_Kill._

A gun had materialized at Charles’s temple. There was no mistaking its solid press against his skin, almost tipping his head to the side.

“Drive. _Fast._ ”

Charles accelerated.

“Put the gun down,” he insisted, clutching the steering wheel. “There’s no need for it.”

“Drive _faster_! We’re losing him, dammit.”

The silver Cadillac. It was two cars ahead, slowing down as the red lights blinked on.

The man next to him growled, punching the dashboard. Charles was frozen.

The gun was hovering next to his head.

And he wasn’t holding it, he was holding his other hand as it exuded a massive pearl of blood, which gradually oozed down his fingers.

“What the hell were you expecting,” Charles muttered, slightly irritated that his interior was being decorated with blood. Nevermind the inexplicably floating gun at his forehead, or the car chase he was unwillingly coerced into.

Baby rabbit, he reminded himself. He could make the man’s life revolve around carrots and burrows, he had tricks of his own—

Of course.

The gun dug into his head, but Charles felt his mouth twitching upwards in wonder.

“You’re—” he was at a loss, unable to articulate his shock, but he managed to splutter out, “You have _powers_.”

The amber light flickered on just then, followed by green, and a roar of revving engines as the columns of cars sped forward. Restless, the man next to him stuck a hand out into the air, stretching it forward as it jolted with a shiver.

“Turn left,” he shouted.

“You can feel that car?” Charles was stuck between panic and admiration.

He took the next left, the van ahead roving away, leaving the Cadillac just a car’s distance in front of them. The man was gritting his teeth. The entire car was thrumming, like it was fuelled with life.

“I can feel your keys, your belt, your watch, and the bullet in that gun that will pierce through your head if you don’t pick up the pace of this bloody car.”  

Charles drove it like it was stolen. He wasn’t keen on surpassing the speed limit, but it was excusable, he conceded. And thrilling.

Though not so much as knowing that the man next to him, his lawless passenger, had _powers._ He could feel objects, control them—what more could he do? What was the extent of his control?

“How are you raising the gun?” Charles looked from the fleeting blur of the quick-passing road to the man next to him. “What kind of things do you have power over?”

The man’s head turned sharply.    

“You really think this is the _time_?” he sneered, his eyes so pale and wide they looked sinister. And while the man didn’t radiate evil intent, hadn’t even cottoned on to the idea of murdering Charles, he was stubbornly driven to pursue the man in the Cadillac.

“You’re like me,” Charles said in realisation. And it wasn’t just the _stubbornly driven_ part, for once. “Listen to me.” Charles kept his voice calm and even. “Drop the gun and _listen_ to me.”

Perhaps if he traced the man’s name, gathered some form of identity. He hastened to shift gear and pushed down on the pedal; every flash of the speedometer screaming at him to stop.

“Turn right he’s going right—!”

Then the man was leaning to the side, hand curling into a fist. As the Cadillac steadied into its swift turn, Charles following, the bumper crumpled with a loud, painful _crunch_ , detaching itself from the body of the car and folding into a spherical ball. With a flick of his fingers, it was hurling into the back window.

The guttural sound the man made suggested he missed his target.

Charles was in awe at the display, losing his concentration, too busy gawking at the insanity sitting next to him.

The dusky haze was starting to settle around his mind, and he was suddenly so penetrable that Charles couldn’t resist. With cursive ease, he gleaned a name,

_Erik._

_What does my name mean_?—the man once asked as a boy, innocently to his parents, while they were tucking him into his bed.

And there it was: a sensitive topic, glaring at him with a shocking red close to the colour of the man’s blood. Charles quaked at the imminent distress associated with the fond, affectionate memory. His mind was a maelstrom of every ordeal he had suffered through, gritting those teeth and baring his knuckles through each, until he manifested a rage so tumultuous it elicited a superior talent.

Now it was the circular wreckage to a glass window, and the levitating gun at his temple.

Charles swallowed dryly.

The cop car tailing them was suddenly the least of his problems.

He adjusted his mirror shakily, sucking in a breath, and said, “I can help you.”

The blaring, unmistakable police siren was nearing, and the Cadillac had managed to slip into an exit and turn a sharp corner that they couldn’t catch up to. Next to him, Erik was retrieving his weapon and holding it squarely in the direction of the Cadillac, yards of exhaust fumes in the distance between them.

And Christ, the riled man could do anything with a bullet.

Charles had to stop him.

“Erik,” he said his name, voice low and modulated, the panic creased out. “Erik, let me help you. We can do this together, with less damage,” his eyes darted to glimpse at the police car on their heels, “with less _company._ ”

The tyres screeched as they turned again, Charles internally wincing at how little the car was going to take before it would deflate, give out, leaving Charles stranded and Erik on his way to stop an entire vehicle when they both knew he didn’t have the power to carry out something of that caliber.

“You can’t stop them alone, Erik. You’re not capable.”

Erik hadn’t aimed yet. His shoulders were stiff.

“How the hell do you know my name,” he gritted out darkly, his mind suddenly _thrumming_ with bone-deep rage. Charles had exposed his real name, the identity he’d never used in America—

“I am a _very_ powerful man,” Charles said bluntly, no better way to go about it, considering their situation. He felt winded. “I can make you think you’re a baby rabbit.” He needed another reminder. The man had singlehandedly ripped a bumper off a car without batting a lash. “Put the gun down, tell me who’s in that car, and I’ll ward off the cops.”

Erik didn’t put the gun down.

“You stubborn _imbecile_.”

But he’d have to see it to believe it, so Charles huffed, rolling his eyes—even if he was inwardly rooting for the chance to flaunt his own tricks.

He slowed the car down.

Erik went through the roof. He bit out a harsh string of German curse words, the car jerking forward on its front wheels.

“Calm down!” Charles belted coolly. From this distance, he could easily grasp the minds of the two men looming. “Watch. They’re going to stop the car and turn around.”

Erik was panting, his gun now pointing to Charles’s head. But his thunderous eyes betrayed him, flitting to the rear-view mirror to witness the influence of Charles’s command, and watch as their pursuers braked sharply in the middle of the lane. Sure enough, they took a casual turn and ended up on the opposite side of the road, heading back to their base to remove all evidence of the black Maserati speeding across New York.

First the man’s jaw dropped. Then it was his gun.

Charles pursed his mouth around the smug grin itching its way up.

“We’ll need to catch up if I can extract any information from their minds,” he explained, with a pointed step on the accelerator, “But you need to tell me what I’m looking for.”

Erik, however, was in a daze. Perhaps the blood loss was making him woozy, but no—Charles stole a subtle glance at his mind and was enveloped by an awestruck replay of earlier, narrated by the perspective of a stunned mind, chanting in a loop,

_I’m not alone. I’m not alone. Mein Gott, I’m no longer alone._

Charles felt himself sway.

He couldn’t imagine how the revelation must be going down for someone who had spent his entire life believing he was the only person who possessed an uncanny ability. And immediately, he had grouped himself with Charles.

Made him an equal due to what made them different.

Declared himself to be whatever Charles was, whether it was a monster or a magician, assured that he wasn’t the only one.

How wonderful it was, to tell someone again, voice the words, “You are _not_ alone.”

Erik turned to face him, back hitting the seat.

Charles wanted to desperately add, _don’t look at me like that._ The man’s eyes were watery, sunken, so open and powerless it made Charles’s throat seize up.

He threw a necessary glance at the road; the silver of the Cadillac gleaming in the bleak horizon, then turned to meet Erik’s eyes again.

They were still pinned on him, unmoving. His shoulders had dropped like they were ridded of heavy weights, and his hand was laying slack against his thigh, doused with blood.

“Erik,” Charles said steadily. How had the nervous energy in the car escalated all of a sudden? He lifted a hand and passed it over the expanse of his sweaty neck.

The same way as earlier, the man was snapping his head away. He pulled himself up and faced the front, straight as a dart. Sweat trickled down the skin behind his ear.

In an attempt to dismiss the moment they’d just shared, Charles removed his own gaze, clearing his throat, and spoke on, nonchalant.

“There are three men in that car. Who are you after and why?”

Erik nodded his head. He summoned his gun from the footwell, but kept it faced down.

“I need to find the man who killed my mother. One of the people in that car knows where he is.”

Charles curled his hand tightly around the steering wheel. He was learning an enormous deal about his power, sitting in this driver’s seat with this man, gritting his teeth and baring his knuckles through the spectrum of second hand pain and anger he was having to deflect.

“Right,” he breathed. “At this distance, it would be difficult for me to get an accurate mental reading of their minds. We need to get closer.”

Erik shifted in his seat. He propped his gun down and spread his hands.

The car felt... weightless.

It was taking off down the road with far more wind to its back, like it was being propelled forward by an otherworldly source of exertion.

“ _Erik_ you’re _incredible_ ,” Charles gasped, astonished. He took his hands off the steering wheel and—

The man was practically launching it forward himself, no need for steering.

“Jesus Christ.”

They were on the silent highway, shooting past signs and stops, roads flanked with hills of shrubbery. Charles could concentrate better this way, his mind sprinting in its outreach, leaping at the nearest exposed mind and gripping a fistful of its contents.

“This man you’re looking for; what’s his name and how would they know him.”

“Sebastian Shaw.” Contempt thickened Erik’s words. “There’s a man in that car who knows where he is, I’m certain.”

The car was starting to swerve to the side. Charles immediately took hold of the steering wheel, wincing. While the man’s focus was incredible, his anger fled from an irrational, visceral point in his mind that had the potential to make him lose his restraints.

“Keep a hold of yourself, Erik,” Charles muttered. He placed two fingers at his temple, rubbing a circle, and allowed himself to shut his eyes and soar.

The man in the backseat was sitting next to a body bag. Charles couldn’t pick up even a trace of the name in his mind, or of any affiliation with Erik.

“They’ve murdered someone. There’s a dead body in that car.”

Erik was immediately thinking the worst. But there was another two men; the chauffeur who, understandably, believed the men following them knew about the murder and who knew who Sebastian Shaw was only by name—the mental image that sprang with a thought was just as vague as his knowledge of the person in question.

Charles stifled a noise of irritation.

He let his luck ride on the passenger. He was taking the heat of the chase, clutching his handkerchief and dabbing his forehead with it. He was convinced the people following him were the crooks he made a fraud deal with. He owed them an unsettling sum.  

“The good thing is, none of them know who _you_ are.”

Erik glared at him—and belatedly, Charles realised that the man didn’t care if they knew, because Erik would’ve killed them regardless. It was such a natural resort, he wouldn’t even given it a second thought.

“What do they know about _Shaw_?!” Erik demanded, the car juddering with his unleashed anger.

Charles obligingly sunk back into the cesspool that was the man’s terrored mind. He did the mental equivalent of blocking his nose as he dove for information. “Shaw has left the country. That’s all this man’s been told.”

A conversation over a phone call, another investment, gratification. This man knew Shaw through an outsider. His travel was mentioned flippantly, and the man didn’t inquire.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said, earnest. “They weren’t much help.”

Erik’s hands dropped.

Slowly, the dense fog enveloping his mind rose once again. Out of rage, frustration, pain, it held up like a tight barricade.

“Surely this will,” Charles sifted for the right words to say, “narrow it down for you?”

Erik gave his low-hung head a nod.

“I think I know where he’s heading.”

At first, Charles felt a surge of relief that Erik wouldn’t have to be gallivanting like a madman in search.

Then he felt the sharp stab of realisation — Erik’s pursuit of Shaw would end with death, and worst of all, Charles couldn’t determine _whose._  

He’d never encountered a mind like his. The way Erik channelled his grief, the way he accessed his hot fury — and the outcome of it so stunningly dangerous that Charles felt goosebumps rise _every time_ — it was too much to soak up in one adrenaline-fuelled night, but it wasn’t even enough.

For Erik, nothing would ever be enough. He was so devoted to this lifestyle, the routine of _hunt, interrogate, kill_ , that if he ever did achieve his goal of killing Shaw—and survived, his mind supplied, because Erik didn’t imagine that even being the case—then it would be instinct for him to revert to the way of life he was so accustomed to, a retrograde drift. There would be no satisfaction in the end, just the desire to see himself succeed again.

By now, Charles was so tangled in the ribbons of Erik’s mind that the effort to extricate himself was a painful one, an unforgivable ache in his worn mind. He needed to clear his head.

“I’m stopping the car,” he announced, eyes landing on the post alerting to the service station nearby.

Erik didn’t utter a word of protest, thankfully—Charles didn’t think he could deal with any more of this man’s ridiculous orders while his cranium throbbed.

The station was just as desolate as its location. He pulled up at the spacious parking lot and, with great pleasure, pulled the brakes.

He tipped his head back against the seat. The impact of mental pressure was jarring; he was knackered from top to toe.

“I need a moment,” he rasped, unclipping his seatbelt and shakily climbing out of his car.

The presence of a dreamy, half-awake mind pinged his awareness, divulging itself from where it was dozing on the paying counter inside the station.

Charles was stood on unsteady legs, back uncurling, when his gaze found Erik’s injured hand again. It was shivering, and the expression on the man’s face was grim, trying valiantly hard to control the agony of his injury that it had the reverse effect. It didn’t take a mind-reader to know he was hurt.

Charles faltered.

He folded a leg underneath himself as he reclaimed his seat, leaning across Erik to reach into the pocketed compartment inside of the door and produce a suitable cloth. Among Raven’s cosmetics and various food wrappers, he managed to find an old discarded shirt.

He carefully tore off a sleeve, then wavered, unsure, before reaching for Erik’s hand. Physical contact enhanced his mental abilities, a facet of his power he’d learned in a regretful situation during his teenage years, but the only tendril of thought Erik transmitted was calm as a sigh. Charles wound the material around his hand, loosely holding his wrist, and felt the comfort he was giving the man reflecting back at him.

 _Comfort._ Simply tending to a self-inflicted wound translated to Erik as a gesture of care that brought him comfort, made him relax against the chair and shut his eyes. When was the last time this man’s mind pulsed with soft relief as he was granted a favour?

It was starting to become cathartic. The spasms of exhaustion tolling through Charles’s mind began to fade, replaced by the silent monotony he found while wrapping the shirtsleeve around his injury and absorbing the waves of thankfulness he picked up on.

Tying a knot to secure the makeshift bandage, he released a long-held breath through his nose.

“Thank you,” Erik said stiffly, inspecting Charles’s work.

“Not a problem.” He scooted back in his seat. “It was bothering me, is all.”

If it wasn’t for the light emanating from the lamppost behind the parked car, Charles would’ve missed the way Erik cocked a brow.

“A little bit of blood was bothering you?” he asked, even though he meant: _my injury concerned someone else?_

But Charles simply shrugged. “I have telepathy. You were broadcasting your pain to me.” He tapped his temple. “It’s hard to block sometimes.”

Erik, despite the way he gave a curt nod and looked away, was completely enamoured with everything Charles said. The thought of Charles, the idea of them being alike—Erik wanted to know all there was to know about him and what he could do. Unlike most people, Erik didn’t even mind that Charles could read his thoughts.

But he had plans to leave the country, to proceed in his lifelong search for revenge. At no cost was he going to let himself become invested in something that could distract him.

He thought turning his head to the opposite side would be the way to go.

The moment Charles opened his mouth to speak, his head was whipping right back.

Erik hated himself for it.

“Want something from inside? I’m going to fill up the car and make a quick phone call.” Charles stretched his arms out in front of him as far as they’d go until he heard a satisfying crack. He peered at Erik, sidelong, who was staring back at his every move as though scared he would miss something.

Erik didn’t excuse himself and leave.

“Thanks, but I’ll wait,” he said, absently thumbing the bandage around his hand.

“Suit yourself.” Charles climbed out of the car again and breathed in the open breeze, the smell of gasoline and burning rubber too significant to miss. He did a quick check on his tyres, but no damage was done. He wondered, was it only metal that Erik could move? It seemed like every material he manipulated had that in common.

In which case, Charles felt like he was made of metal. He had the man’s focus and attention the whole time as he went about refuelling his car, and could feel a dull sense of distress when he was out of his sight, the man’s mind inadvertently pulling Charles closer, longing for him.

By now the person at the counter was forced awake, rubbing into his eyes to keep them open as Charles quickly made his payment. Before he left, he made sure he did a check of the man’s mind to ensure he hadn’t witnessed anything peculiar.

His head was lolling forward before Charles had even stepped out of the door.

The phone booth was positioned outside, where Erik could lean forward against the glove compartment and watch him. It occurred to Charles, right then, that Erik was looking out for him, making sure he was safe.

And Erik had never felt compelled to worry for someone else’s life, nevermind that he had Charles at gunpoint not long ago.

Flashing the man a small smile, he turned towards the phone and tapped the dials for the mansion landline. His hands were trembling from the cold—his entire body was, from his shoulders to his knees, the frigid temperature suddenly affecting him. His breath puffed out like thick smoke, and mystified, he found it reminded him of Erik’s mind.

He glanced at the man over a shoulder, who had his brows furrowed in deep concentration. He was toying with his bandage again.

Charles sighed. The man was always restless.

The dial tone rang through, and Charles waited for Raven to pick up. He knew she was in range, and with enough control, he could merely contact her mind, but he felt his powers waning with fatigue.

Raven wasn’t picking up. Perhaps she had retired already; it being fairly late into the night, he didn’t expect her to wait up. Charles hung up before the help picked up, or worse, his mother. He would need a whole gigaton of mental power to deal with her at this time.

He wrapped his arms tightly around himself. Erik was watching him, and he knew, but he was also, slowly, getting closer.

When Charles turned around, Erik was standing there.

“Erik? Is something the matter?”

Erik curled his lip. It made him look so very handsome.

“You’re shivering.”  

He looked pointedly at the way Charles’s shoulders tremored, arms enveloping himself to contain some warmth.

“Just a little cold,” he admitted sheepishly. “It’s noth—”

Erik was taking off his jacket the next second.

Charles stilled, watching as Erik carefully divested the sleeves from each arm and swung it around Charles’s shoulders to surround him with the smell and warmth of leather.

Erik was only wearing a polo shirt underneath. It looked like it was made to fit over every muscle, every bump and groove of his upper body.

“Thank you,” Charles said, raking his eyes up. He wasn’t going to thank the man with his gaze on his pecs.

He nodded down at his feet then looked up from under his lashes. His restless hands were busy fumbling with the bandage again.

“You’ve loosened it,” Charles huffed, stepping forward to take Erik’s hand. “Let’s go sit inside.”

They walked back to the car in silence, and instead of sitting on his side, Charles walked around to Erik’s seat before the man could shut the door. He crouched down, leaning against the car, and immediately reached for Erik’s hand.

He ripped off another sleeve from the shirt and added a double layer to the bandage, this time keeping it tight enough that it looked formidable. Erik grimaced, curling his fingers. But the smile on his lips was directed at Charles.

“Don’t work it loose,” Charles said, adjusting the jacket around his shoulders. “And don’t look at me like that. I’m not some sort of marvel for wanting to help you out.”

Erik blinked and his smile faded. The mist around his mind went dark.

“What if I can’t take my eyes off of you because…”

Charles swallowed. Without any breath in his lungs, he struggled to, a tiny noise coming out.

Erik’s good hand was reaching forward.

“Because?” Charles breathed, deliberately widening his eyes.

“Because you have grease on your face,” he chuckled, brushing his thumb over the jut of Charles’s cheekbone.

The disappointment he felt couldn’t be helped.

Feigning nonchalance, Charles simply moved his face away from Erik’s touch and pilfered about for the rags of the shirt left. Smothering it across his face helped, and not only in removing the stain. He was blushing.

It was foolish of him to think Erik would indulge. He was so attracted to Charles, so endeared by him that—

He would rather sit in denial than act upon it.

Rising onto his feet, Charles scrambled for the door and flung it shut.

With a dull creak, the door went inert before it could close.

 _Show off,_ Charles thought, but he couldn’t blame him.

And he hardly expected Erik to stop him, next; before he could walk away, Erik’s hand was snug around his arm and pulling.

Charles couldn’t tell what was greater: his excitement, or the anticipation radiating off of Erik.

Pursing his lips, he let himself be reeled back towards him. Charles was feeling defiant, so with a swift movement of his hips, he gracefully dropped himself into Erik’s lap.

Clearly Erik didn’t get to experience this frequently. His fixated expression was a sure indication—nothing flustered him quite as much as a lapful of Charles did, sitting on his thighs and facing him with a coy, charming smile.

“Is this alright?” Charles asked, carefully placing each arm on Erik’s shoulders and linking his hands. The jacket slipped off him just a little, but Erik readjusted it with hesitant hands, nodding his head.

“It’s wonderful,” he said, his breathing so labored that his lips quivered. “What’s your name?”

“Charles,” he answered.

Erik was so starved of affection, that even having a hand card through his hair made his speech stutter. “It’s a n-nice name...”

“It’s not too bad,” Charles shrugged. _Christ_ , Erik was the ardent, complimenting type. And if he had any doubts, Erik didn’t let them prevail.

“Charles,” he said breathily. “Why can’t I take my eyes off of you even now?”

“There’s something else on my face,” he replied sardonically.

Erik’s lips curled up again. “Yes.” He cocked his head to the side. “Beautiful eyes. The most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

He’d been to more countries than Charles could name, seen more people than he could imagine being around, laid with a number of men, guiltily, and women both—and yet, what he claimed had integrity.

“Am I lying to you?” Erik asked, giving Charles permission to roam in his mind. The sensation of arousal flooded him.

“You’re not,” Charles told him, flustered.

Smirking, Erik lifted a hand to play with the zipper on the jacket draped over him. His restless hands couldn’t settle in one place.

Neither could his eyes.

But then they landed on his chest, and lit up.

“Still cold?” he asked, parting his jacket to the side so his jumper was more visible. Charles ducked his head to see for himself, that his nipples were hard, protruding against the fabric.

He looked up at Erik.

The man’s hands slid down, slow and dragging, until his thumbs landed and _pressed_ on each point.

Charles let his head fall back. Through Erik’s eyes, he saw himself with his neck arched, chest heaving, a large grey cloud of condensation leaving his mouth.

Erik’s vision of him was alluring.

Charles straightened carefully before moving to tuck his legs inside the car, Erik pulling the door shut. He rearranged himself so he was facing the man better, legs on either side of him.  

He dragged his hips forward, and—

“I thought you put your gun away.”

Erik’s brows steepled in confusion.

Charles rutted in Erik’s lap, directly over the bulge he was seated on.

“Not your gun, is it,” he panned.

“No,” Erik rasped, licking his lips.

“Good heavens.” Charles was immediately wishing he was flexible enough to bend and take him into his mouth. Already.

He tugged the jacket off.

“You’ll get cold,” Erik said.

“Relax, I’ll put it back on.” Charles closed his teeth over his bottom lip and narrowed his eyes as he stripped off his jumper. Erik’s hands descended on him instantly, smoothing down his chest and stopping at his waist. The scratch of the bandage was pleasant. Wearing the jacket on his bare skin felt better. Erik’s fingers pressed into his flesh. “You like me in it, don’t you?”

Erik was having trouble speaking. In reply, the metal zipper lining the jacket came free, shimmering, and winded into two individual snake-like cords that were smoothly trailing up Charles’s skin.

Each silver of metal coiled around his nipples, tight, cutting off circulation.

Charles let out a whine. His eyes rolled shut, one hand landing on the window to his side, and the other squeezing Erik’s shoulder.

As each wire of metal uncurled, they grazed his sensitive skin in a cyclic motion. Charles wasn’t long into his sigh of breath before Erik was moving in to suck one nipple into his mouth. As blood rushed back, Erik bit down.

It was certainly one way to get Charles’s filthiest moans to come pouring out of his mouth.

Among others: like it wasn’t enough for Charles to see the execution of perfected kinetic control over metal—like the jeans unzipping by itself didn’t do _enough_ for him—Erik placed Charles back against the dashboard, supporting him with a steady hand, and lazily slid his tongue over as much of Charles’s skin that he could reach.

His tongue was rather long.

And now Charles moaned wetly, hips snapping into cold air, unable to take much more. He dredged up pulses of impatience that Erik’s mind reacted to with answering endearment.

Neither of them were going to have much self-control tonight.

Erik hoisted him back to his earlier position and watched, waited as Charles caught his breath. Nothing was quite like the way Erik looked at him.

While their gazes held, Charles ran his fingers underneath Erik’s shirt, walking them up and down, before simply wrenching the polo off. Erik’s skin was all hot and feverish, so built and lithe—Charles buried his head in the man’s neck and went about uncovering more of him.

Erik’s slacks were half open, and Charles eagerly undid them the rest of the way, the palm of his hand pressing down and massaging.

It was hard to put into words how desperately Charles wanted the man inside him. How much he yearned to have it wipe his mind clean of everything but prominent, intense pleasure.   

He shoved his hand into the pocket sleeve at the door, fishing through the items to find something suitable. He felt a cluster of lipsticks, a powder brush, unidentifiable products he couldn’t understand the use of, and a small tub of vaseline. The latter was a blessing.

Erik was fumbling at Charles’s jeans already. Between two people, it was a laborious task, the material too stubborn and tight around his crotch to dislodge. Combined effort, some more damage to the interior, and a readjustment of Charles’s limbs around the car was all it took before he was freed of both his briefs and his jeans.

By the time he was kicking them aside, Erik was staring dumbly.

Turning Erik’s head to face him, Charles delicately placed his hands on his jaw and whispered, “I’ll feel so good to you. You’ll never have anyone that compares.”

The steering wheel started to spin on its own.

A warm laugh escaped Charles, his teeth chattering briefly. The hem of the jacket tickled the curve of his arse.

Charles dipped a hand between them to grab Erik’s cock, the girth so wide that his fingers barely grazed his thumb. His other hand held the vaseline tub in the air. “Open this.”

The lid ascended with a twist, then went out of sight.

It never failed to amaze him.

Charles scooped out a large dollop, and reached behind himself to swab it over his arse hole. Lifting his hips felt like giving Erik a show, and allowed his hand to slide up from where it was still wrapped around his cock.

Erik’s head fell back with a soft, guttural, “ _Oh._ ”

Shifting the jacket upwards and out of the way of his fingers, Charles leaned against Erik as he fitted a finger inside himself.

He did this often. He could come from this alone, he knew just how deep and where exactly he had to go before he’d be staining himself.

But it had been a while, what with the growing pile of a strenuous workload all through the semester, leaving him with few opportunities for other endeavours. The result was a tighter squeeze around his finger, more to open up, and enough to drive Erik crazy with.

He rose to his knees and thrust his fingers in with a loud moan he couldn’t keep in, let _out_ for Erik to hear and remember. The body of the car seemed to be vibrating.

Now Erik was impatient and Charles was the tease.

“I’m ready for you,” he sang it out like a moan, half breathless, leaning in so he could press his forehead against Erik’s. With the heightened contact between their minds, Charles came to learn of Erik’s contentment, an undercurrent to the surfacing thoughts of how smitten he was with Charles and his sexual prowess, his incredible power, his casual ease in Erik’s company—

He brought his chin forward until their lips touched.

Immediately, Erik was surging forward, clutching Charles’s face to press them closer. His lips were warm while Charles’s were slightly chilled. But Erik didn’t mind; he mewled and groaned with his hands travelling, insatiable, through the mess of Charles’s hair down to the strained stretch of his thighs. They pulled away to change angle, the brush of Erik’s tongue probing his lips open, wide enough that Charles’s breath wavered on its way out.

Removing his mouth with a long lick, Charles didn’t give him too much of a bracing moment before he was positioning himself above Erik’s cock. His shins stuck against the leather and the back of his legs were cold, but he began sinking down an inch, supported only by broad, burly shoulders.

And while _he_ was the one being stretched open, _Erik_ yelled.

There was no foreskin on his cock—they were shaded from the waist down, and Charles couldn’t see much of him, but as he felt his head entering his hole, the difference became apparent.

He hadn’t been fucked by a circumcised cock before. Curious, he shifted his hips around, jaw clenched, experimenting with the unfamiliar feel. The difference wasn't substantial, with only less sensitive skin to glide over, but it didn't make it any less pleasurable for them both.

Erik thrusted up.

Charles gave out a sharp gasp, falling forward. “I was _not_ ready for that…”

Then Erk kept his hips pinned down in apology, of some sort, and Charles wasn’t having that. He spread his thighs further apart and wrapped his arms around Erik’s neck, once he’d positioned the man’s hand carefully around his waist.

“Now do it again.”

And when Erik resumed, he chased it, reluctant to stop and breathe. The angle was heavenly, his thick cock widening him out like he was shaped for it, giving Charles no reason to impede Erik’s assault.

The entire car bounced, jolted into movement. If anyone was outside, watching—if the man obliviously dozing in the station roused—they would know, without a doubt.

From this position, Charles usually enjoyed doing all the work, having power over the pace and depth and direction with a fluid roll of his hips. But in the space of the car his actions were limited, his head ducked so it didn't collide with the roof above. Still, not to be dominated, he clenched around the girth of Erik's cock when he indulgently bucked into him. Sweat rained down his back.

Erik was so deeply immersed he didn’t even realise he was making every noise he saved for times alone, in solitude, and never dreamed to reveal to anyone else.

They were abandoned, unsalvageable, and the sound of Charles’s name. Throaty, irregular, staggered—

Erik couldn’t articulate his warning. Charles placed his mouth over Erik’s, shoved his hips down to repeat the jab at his prostate, and sealed the moment with a flustered kiss on the man’s lips.

As though swept away by the wind, the mist around Erik’s mind grew faint. It meant the pleasure of his orgasm didn’t go unseen, from the initial sparking eruption to its aftermath, so heady and overpowering that Charles had to look down to realise he was coming, too.

All up his belly, jetting across Erik for good measure.

Charles dropped his weight onto Erik’s chest. He moved once to allow Erik to pull out, and even the painful slide of removal made Charles want to moan.

Between swollen, sticky bodies, his cock sat limp against Erik's thigh, softening. It had drawn the man's attention, and soon Erik was reaching down to touch, his own curiosity evoked. Charles whimpered but otherwise endured it, glancing down at the way long fingers carefully retracted the foreskin to expose his head.

He’d meant to speak, but mumbled out nonsensically. Erik’s chest heaved under him, their foreheads touching as they both looked up. Erik let go of his cock in favour of bringing his hands up to cup his cheeks and plant a misplaced, slightly to the left, but nonetheless sweet kiss on his face. At last, the car was stationary.

Charles rested his chin on the man’s shoulder. The hot energy they were exuding could only be contained for so long before Charles was shivering in Erik's arms.

Somehow, Erik managed to constantly emit warmth. When Charles burrowed closer to him, Erik placed his large hands on as much of his exposed skin as he could, sharing that comforting heat.

"Feels like you're still inside me," Charles murmured with a wriggle of his hips. He'd been shagged so well that his body couldn't get enough of it, clinging onto the residual sensation.

"Wouldn't mind if I was," Erik retorted, the grin on his face evident in his voice. His bare arms wrapped around Charles tighter, surprising him—Erik didn't strike him as someone who would have a propensity to hug and cuddle after dirty, kinky sex with a stranger who confessed to being able to do freakish things with the organ in his skull.

But to each their own. It took a lot to surprise a mind reader.

And yet, it shouldn't have. Erik's thoughts were of satiation, like having a full stomach after being famished, and the incredible flooding relief that finding Charles brought him, but overriding their happy hum was the mockery of reality: he was going to leave, to regret and forget this whole escapade, and recommence his mission.

It struck a chord.

And not because of the way they'd spent this night together, from panicked threats to tangled limbs, but because Erik was evading the peace he'd found in Charles's company. The friend he could have, the ally, the partnership—he was abandoning it all in order to be alone again, on the path that led to vengeance.

He didn't need Charles, is what he thought. Even though knowing he wasn't the only one and that Charles was like him seemed to have unlocked a magnitude of his power that had never been so vast, boosting an entire vehicle forward out of reassurance and peace as opposed to anger — it didn't make a difference to him.

Erik wasn't _looking_ for peace.  

His fingers caressed Charles’s spine, lingering. Erik held him and touched him like he had never been in contact with anything more brilliant, like he was a sculpture of perfection.

But he was prepared to walk away from it all, like it didn't affect him.

And if Erik could be that deliberately flippant, then so could Charles. After all, they didn't just match each other in otherworldly talent.

Hauling himself up against the hot leather seat of the car, Charles sat back on his heels as he rooted around for the tattered remains of the shirt, before using its cleaner side to wipe himself up with. Erik watched, eyes hooded, as though waiting for the same treatment. But Charles simply dropped the shirt on Erik's lap as he climbed out of the car.

The man looked on, aghast, as Charles nonchalantly reached for his underwear and jeans to tug them on. Erik donned his cautious demeanour, panther-like as he looked from corner to corner ensuring they were alone. The long, chiseled line of his cheekbone was stark with a red flush as his eyes drifted up Charles's form.

"Relax, I'll know if there's someone around," Charles muttered, buttoning his jeans. Erik gave a nod as he passed Charles his discarded jumper, his throat moving as he swallowed. "Thanks," he muttered in acknowledgement, returning Erik's jacket to him as he redressed.

Erik didn't ask for assistance as he shuffled into his clothes, bandaged hand stiff. His trousers did themselves up, rather effusively demonstrating how the man could do on his own. Charles heaved a sigh.

"So I guess you're headed to the airport?" he asked, raking his hands through sweat-damp locks. He still reeked, of leather and rubber and the beer Erik had last drank, and the way his tawny skin smelt when it was sprayed with Charles's come. But at least — this walk of shame involved the musk of the night and a car.

Erik shrugged as he contorted the metal that was once his jacket zipper, all casual. It drifted between his fingers in anticipation of its next shape.

"I have a few places to go. Visits to pay."

Charles could make the depiction easily enough: he had money to gather. It shocked him, like a sudden epiphany, when he thought about how Erik went about arranging funds for his spontaneous trips aboard. A bank safe would melt to his volition too obligingly.

Erik's jaw twitched. He glanced in Charles's direction. "Where are you going?"

"Family home in Westchester," he replied, fixing his belt on. He was conscious of the way he fiddled with the metal buckle while Erik looked on. The man probably wanted to laugh at his struggle. "I'm a bit off course, but it's not far."

Erik — despite how he flourished in his independence — envied Charles for having a place he could refer to as 'home'. Helplessly, his mind drifted to focus on all the ways they were different. He was trying _too_ hard to make this easier for himself, as he stepped out of the car and onto the pavement.

"Stay... safe." He meant it as more of an order than a reminder. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he stepped nearer to Charles. His rucksack floated out steadily to land near his feet. Sure, he had to walk past him to find the road, but he was getting too close, and Charles felt himself snap.

"It's incredible, isn't it?" he intoned hotly. Erik raised his brows. "How much you're prepared to do for someone and what little you're expecting in return. Incredible. Absolutely incr—"

Charles _hated_ being interrupted. Even if he was repeating the same word, he was making a point. But now Erik was filling his mouth, tongue darting between lips and smoothing over the inside of his cheek. The man trusted him enough to initiate a filthy kiss out in public air. The man, also, was a brutal kisser — a fact he had failed to notice earlier, but now felt all through his veins, rising on the balls of his feet to elevate his height, get closer, have more.

They broke apart with a long, lazy suck at Charles's lip, his head falling back. Erik cupped his face as he sighed, eyes opening.

The bitingly cold air wafted into his warm mouth, and he opened his eyes in turn, dropping onto the flat of his feet.

And that was farewell. Erik gazed at his eyes for a while longer before he left, stalking in the other direction, rucksack hiked onto his shoulder.

Charles dragged a hand over his face.  

He turned back to his car, wondering — how was he supposed to get the man out of his mind? Especially when he could still feel Erik thinking about him and considering himself in the same predicament.

But he felt comfort in believing that the next time Erik would need him — and he _would,_ as a friend, an ally, someone to bandage his hand or kiss his lips, chauffeur him through a car chase or even, hell, fish him out of an ocean — Charles would find himself there already.

 


End file.
